Chapter 8
8
brAIDEN
A fter her weekend of enforced leisure, Samantha moves fast on making the appointment for Aiofe. She shifts her own schedule so she can be there for the girl. I put Rory O’Hare in charge of their security. He’s the man Patrick said I could rely on.
Because, despite my most pointed phone calls, my Warlord is showing no sign of coming home from Boston any time soon. He’s too good a man to break by giving a direct order. Not when I can’t be sure he’ll take it.
But O’Hare brings me his plan before Samantha and Aiofe leave the hotel. He’s got one man in a car in front of my girls and one man in a car behind. Liam Murphy will drive Samantha and Aiofe with O’Hare riding literal shotgun, a weapon in his hands from door to door, courtesy of Pennsylvania’s open carry laws.
It’s a good approach, the sort of thing I’d plan myself. I sign off on it.
When they get back, O’Hare reports directly to me, in the Presidential Suite. He says no one followed them there or back, and I believe him. He’s able to recite the make and model of every car that entered the therapist’s parking lot while Aiofe and Samantha were inside.
Samantha reports in too. “I wasn’t allowed to sit in on the session,” she says.
“So how do you know it worked?”
“Therapy doesn’t work , not like that. It’ll take a few visits at least. After a month or two, we can ask Aiofe if she wants to continue.”
I shake my head. “No Kelly has ever needed a head shrinker.”
“And look how well your family handles trauma.” She doesn’t look at my scarred arm. She doesn’t need to.
“Fine,” I say. “We’ll talk to her in a month.”
“But there are some changes we need to make in the meantime.”
“What sort of changes?” I ask warily.
For the first time since walking into the suite, Samantha looks uncomfortable. “We should have a funeral for Birte. And for Grace Poole too.”
“The fire’s still under investigation,” I say.
“And it might be for months. Aiofe needs closure now.”
“Do you honestly think she’s strong enough to face a crowd of people?”
“There won’t be a crowd. Just the family and a priest. You can tolerate a legitimate priest conducting the service, can’t you?”
That’s a dig about our wedding. A taste like quinine paints my throat. “Go ahead,” I concede. “Schedule it at St. Columba’s.”
Samantha nods, as if she’s crossed an item off a long list. “I want to enroll Aiofe in summer school.”
“You’re out of your feckin’ mind.”
“She’s already gone three weeks without classes. And I’m not sure how much she learned before she was talking. I spoke to Fairfax today, and he thinks John Bell might stay in Patagonia. Aiofe needs to be reading at grade level.”
How the hell does Fairfax know what John Bell is planning? But I argue: “She reads every night before she goes to sleep.”
“Half of those are picture books. Grace Poole was her primary caretaker, and that woman was barely literate.”
“Grace Poole—” I start to defend myself.
“Plus,” Samantha rolls over my objection. “Grace spoke to her in Irish half the time.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Irish.”
“Of course there isn’t. But you want Aiofe to succeed here. In the States.”
Samantha knows exactly where to find my soft bits. Of course I want Aiofe to succeed. I owe that much to her, after all that happened in Ireland.
But I protest, “You cannot drop that innocent child into a public school. You can’t tell her to sink or swim, and all her troubles be damned.”
Samantha looks wounded. “Of course not. But a parochial school would be perfect. I’ll talk to the priest at St. Columba’s. See what he recommends.”
“What’s next on your list?” I ask sourly.
“We need a house.”
I laugh. “We have a house.”
“How long before we can move back into Thornfield?” she asks. “If the fire department clears us tomorrow and you pour in every last resource from Kelly Construction?”
I answer grudgingly. “A year.”
“And you honestly intend for us to stay in this hotel for those twelve months?”
I look around. “There are worse kips in the world.”
Samantha has her facts drawn up like she’s arguing before the Supreme Court. “Aiofe’s a child. She needs a child’s bedroom. A playroom. A kitchen where she can learn to make cookies.”
“Fairfax can get her up to speed once we’re back in Thornfield,” I say dryly.
“How much longer do you think Fairfax will stick around? Ordering room service is a little below his pay grade, isn’t it?”
“Alec Fairfax is the most loyal man I know.”
She changes tack. “You and I need some privacy.”
“That wasn’t a problem Thursday night.”
She blushes, but she doesn’t give in. “That was a mistake.”
“You don’t believe that for a moment.”
“Okay. It wasn’t a mistake. But it won’t happen again. If there were pictures, even one… I’m about to face a hearing on whether I’m fit to practice law. All it takes is one board member to say what I let you do to me is perverted. Immoral. Sick.” Her chin starts to quiver, but she doesn’t stop. “Don’t do it, Braiden. Don’t make me choose between my career and you.”
The eejits who will hear her case have their own secrets. Everyone does. And I’m not opposed to manufacturing a little evidence, to planting it either, if that’s what it takes for Samantha to keep her license.
But that’s not what she wants to hear. Not today. So I sigh and say, “Tell Fairfax to look around for something on the open market.”
“Something to rent?”
I shake my head. “Not with the security we need.”
I see her start the calculations—closing costs, agents’ fees, insurance, and all the rest. And that’s not counting the fact that I was down a quarter of a billion dollars after Russo boosted my container full of cocaine. That my territory was cut at a summit in this very hotel. That I’m bleeding money to Warren K. Chesterton and I’ve paid every one of my loyal Fishtown Boys a bonus, even though my income’s in the jacks.
But it’s not her job to worry about any of that; it’s mine. If Samantha thinks we need a house, I’ll get her one. I protect my family. So I remind her, same as I’m reminding myself: “I’m a billionaire. I can buy myself a house.”
She knows about my money. We met at a feckin’ tax haven.
“Anything else?” I ask, eyebrows raised.
She shakes her head, awed into silence for once. “I’d say thank you, but that doesn’t seem to be enough.”
I shrug.
Her eyes brighten, as if she’s just had a brilliant idea. “I could wear my collar?—”
“Not tonight.”
“Fairfax can keep an eye on Aiofe?—”
“No.”
She sits back, confused. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Aside from making me think Thursday night was my idea?”
“It was!”
I just stare at her, focusing on her throat, where my emerald would rest if she wasn’t such a strong-willed sub.
“You decided what we did,” she amends.
I still don’t answer.
“We both needed it! Didn’t you feel better after we…”
How sweet. She doesn’t know which words to choose. I decide to toss her a lifeline. “Sure, I felt better after fucking you blind. And I want nothing more than to put you on your knees again.”
“Then why not?—”
“Because you’re my sub, piscín. You need to learn a lesson. You do not top from below. And I’m Dom enough to teach that to you.”
Her old defiance rides high. “So you’re never putting me in my collar again?”
“I’ll put you in your collar when I decide it’s time. Until then, you can think about what it means to truly submit.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. And I leave the room before I can change my mind.
I’m in for a week of cold showers. Maybe more, if Samantha stays as stubborn as I know she can be.